Headcase
by digitalruki
Summary: Somehow Glitch went from being completely brainless to only being a half-wit. Somehow.
1. Roots

Title: Headcase, Chapter 1

Author: digitalruki

Rating: PG

Characters: Glitch, later Glitch/DG

Summary: Somehow, Glitch went from being brainless to being a half-wit. Somehow.

Author's Note & Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. Any feedback on this fic would be most welcome.

-0-

The first thing he remembers is a rough hand at his back, shoving him violently forward down a dim passage. He stumbles. The hand yanks at the collar of his...his coat, he is...pulled to his feet. The passage grows brighter. His eyelids flutter as the light becomes almost unbearable  
_  
Eyes blinking back tears, brow furrowed, quivering lips whispered "My angel, my light"_

A final shove, his world spins, his feet are swept from under him, his cheek makes contact with something sandy and hard. The ground. Outside. A gruff voice

_called, "To our right-hand man," and then raised his glass in a toast_

yells something he can't understand. He lifts himself slowly to his feet, his limbs sore from some marathon he can't remember running, he finds that his throat is dry when he tries to cry out in pain, and the only sound is cloth against skin, boots against gravel, and a deafening wind against his back.

And the tinkling of metal against metal, somewhere above his brow, like the link of a chain hitting the cuff that binds a criminal to his cage

_spinning fast and freely on their little toes_

The sound of boots against gravel, wind against cloth against skin, following the sweeping shape of his own shadow as it staggers further and further away from the light of the sun.

He is a man, as far as he can tell, but beyond that he's not sure of anything.

-0-

He is walking. He must walk, for it is only when he walks that his head will leave him in peace. He is fleeing from the ghostly whisper that seems to come from all directions even when he is alone.

When his body can't go on, his legs give out from under him. But before he can even hit the ground, he spasms. His body can't take not being upright. He can't see his shadow, he doesn't know where he is--whether he's up or down. His breath quickens, his throat closes up. Fear-stricken and exhausted, he wills his legs to support him, to carry his weight just a little farther, just a little farther, just a little farther.

Each night, when his shadow disappears, he tries to rest, but still his is restless, he can't bear to stop moving. So he simply rocks in place, sometimes leaning against a tree for support, trying to concentrate enough to hear where the whispers are coming from. What are they saying? But he is always distracted by something, the wind, rustling of leaves, the howl of some creature. Then dawn comes and it is a relief, for now he needs only think of putting one foot in front of the other, again and again.

One night while he is sitting by the fire of a small gypsy camp, an old woman comes to give him a blanket. She holds it out for him to take, but he can only stare at it. Frowning, she throws the cloth around his shoulders. "If you know enough to eat and sleep, you should know when to accept another person's kindness," she says crossly, and wanders back to her tent.

Maybe it's the warmth of the wool on his back, but his eyes begin to shine in realization. It is as if the fire has spread to the empty hole of his mind.

He doesn't remember when he stopped moving, but for a moment he is at peace. He can't feel his feet until something makes him twitch, and a rush of sensation flies through him as he realizes he's on his back. He springs to his knees, his legs curling to the side as if expecting to find a ledge to drop off of, and that's strange. He half expects to be... somewhere, and for a moment, he is almost concerned that the place he finds himself in is unfamiliar.

That night, thought grows like roots under the dark soil, unseen, ready to sprout with the rising of the sun.

-0-

The next morning, the old woman wakes up to find the headcase framed in the entrance to her tent, holding the re-folded blanket in his arms. She shifts to see him more clearly, and the sound of shuffling blankets draws his attention. His face flickers to life like light refracting inside a prism.

He blinks, aware, more now than he can ever remember, of the other person. He knows that the blanket he holds belongs to her, and while he's not too sure on the details of how he came to aquire it, he knows when to return something that's been borrowed.

He walks over slowly, as if he has to stop and remember what he was doing with each step, and holds out the blanket in front of her. She raises her arms and grasps the bundle gingerly. He opens his mouth to speak, but is stopped again. The old woman can see the words caught in his throat, formless, aching to be spoken.

"Thank you," she utters, in part to show her gratitude, in part to hope he can learn by example.

"Thank you," he mimics, meeting her gaze again. He attempts a smile but quickly drops his head to the ground. The old woman draws back the covers and pulls herself to her feet, quietly, careful not to rouse her tentmates.

"Sit," she commands, indicating the bed. As she shuffles around the tent, she watches him out of the corner of her eye, seeing him hesitate at first. Finally, he whisks the tails of his coat gracefully out behind him as he settles on the low cot. The gesture seems oddly practiced for someone who can't even cross a room without stopping several times to check himself. Indeed, once he settles, he looks around in bewilderment, as if wondering how the cieling suddenly grew so high.

How can a man live without his brain? Logically, it's impossible, but things in the O.Z. don't always run on logic. Sometimes they run on magic.

The old woman has lived a long life and witnessed many unexplainable events. She's not one to ignore something strange simply because she doesn't understand it. And this man is the veritable mascot for abnormality. She can't help but ponder what in his past life drove the villianous matriarchy to saw open his skull. And she can't help wonder wether he will ever regain some part of himself.

He is unsure, innocent, but not without the capacity to observe and learn. Was his brain once so massive that removing part of it has only temporarily hampered him? Or is his heart so profound that he has no use for his mind?

As he tentatively runs his fingers in circles across the soft yarns of her bedspread, she pours two cups of coffee.

This time, when she offers him the steaming cup, he raises his arms to take it.


	2. Glitch

Title: Headcase, Chapter 2

Author: digitalruki

Rating: PG

Characters: Glitch, later Glitch/DG

Summary: Somehow, Glitch went from being brainless to being a half-wit. Somehow.

Author's Note & Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. Any feedback on this fic would most welcome.

Word Count: 1,905

She is digging through a trunk of old clothes, shirts and vests her sons don't wear anymore, things she's been using for quilts. A small pile is forming beside her of things _he_ can wear. Things other than that decrepit brown tailcoat, now billowing on the clothesline outside her tent.

"Camilla!" the headcase calls anxiously, sweeping the tent door open. He stumbles in wearing only his pants and white shirt. She can hear him fidget like an impatient child even before she turns to see him.

"What is it, dear?" she asks, shifting to her feet slowly. Her spine cracks a couple of times and she winces.

Arms snake their way under her armpits and she is lifted to her feet before she can protest. "I can pick my own self up, thank you," she grumbles, smacking his hand away. "Now, what's got you in such a fit?"

"My coat," he sputters, bringing his hands to his head. "I've lost it. Have you seen it?" He looks around the small room worriedly.

She's speechless for a few seconds, wondering how he can remember her name, but not when she'd pulled the coat from his shoulders just hours before. Finally, quietly, gently, she says, "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" he asks, meeting her gaze warily. His hands are back on his forehead, rubbing. "No," he mutters, "I can't remember." And she can see, _feel_ him crawling through the collapsed remains of his synapses, grasping at the dark watery depths and coming up with nothing. No tailcoat, no name, no past. "No," he mutters, "I can't remember."

His confusion tears her right down the middle. Should she just give him the answer or can she help him? What exactly is she trying to do for him? He's just another straggler with no home, and she has little more to offer than shelter and supplies. She can't re-build him.

Her unease must be visible on her face, because the next time she meets his eyes, his confusion evaporates and concern flows into his brow. His hands are on her shoulders. "What is it, Camilla? What's wrong?"

She forces herself to smile. "Not to worry, dear," she says. "I just saw your coat outside." And she hopes she didn't worry him, but he just looks at her, sees her fear, hears the worry in her voice. He squeezes her shoulders, and for a split second he seems perfectly fine, acutely perceptive, and a hundred annuals wiser. And she wonders if that's _how he used to be_.

And then it's gone. He smiles brightly, bounding out of the tent, and collides with the longcoat standing by the door.

-0-

Lionel Weaver is a former tin-man and current resistance fighter now posing as a longcoat. His mother is Camilla Weaver, who lives on a rebel camp in the eastern forests. He travels to this camp every six months or so, to exchange information and visit his family.

Today, as he approaches the entrance to his mother's tent, he is barreled over by--well, _something_.

With a clutch purse for a head.

The thing quickly realigns itself, brushing at its shirt as if to smooth out all the wrinkles and tears that cover it. The gesture is bizarrely elegant. The man (and it _is_ a man, isn't it?) inclines his head slightly and stammers, "Oh, I'm terribly-- um, terribly...?" He scratches his head and stares at his feet. All grace has disappeared. Lionel isn't sure whether to think the man noble or just severely disillusioned.

"Terribly?" he repeats. "Terribly sorry?" he guesses.

The man twitches, exclaiming, "I'm terribly sorry!" He's looking at the forest behind them, or perhaps at his triumph, but not at Lionel, whose attention is drawn to the woman who opens the tent flap.

"Lionel!" she beams, throwing her arms wide open. They embrace like two hands sore from many years' labor.

"Mother," replies Lionel, "Who's this?" he adds, indicating the third party.

His mother pauses, because honestly, she doesn't know.

"He's...just passing through, Lionel," she says, smiling at her ward. "I thought I'd at least feed him and wash his clothes, before he leaves, " she adds, nodding to the clothesline.

"But Mother," he presses, "Look at its head. It could be _anybody_--"

Her mouth purses. "Honestly, boy, I didn't think I'd raised you to be heartless. I trust myself to know who to show mercy towards."

"That's not the issue!" he barks. The headcase's full attention is on him now, its _hands_ are on Lionel's _arms, _and suddenly his feet are in the air and his back collides with uneven earth.

His mother screams and rushes to his side. The headcase just stands there, still not looking at him, just looking from its hands to Camilla, utter shock in its eyes.

-0-

He tries to look at it as a man, as _human_, but his eyes keep straying to the bit of silver on it's head. So then he tries to see him as just another convict--another headcase, like the ones who you laugh at as they wander the streets, never really stopping to look at them. But he doesn't think he's ever seen one so...alert. Alive. It just doesn't make sense.

So he's stuck in his mother's makeshift living room, the thing sitting on her bed, its eyes very bright and open for being so sunken in. She tells him about his younger brother, that he's still out scouting, relaying messages, same old. She hands the headcase a cup of coffee.

"Thank you, Camilla," it says, dipping its..._his_ head in the most gentlemanly fashion.

What bothers him is that this guy is familiar. He's pretty sure he's seen him before. He didn't put it together until the thing dragged something brown and decrepit in from outside and pulled it on. Pulled it over his shoulders with practiced ease. A nobleman's tailcoat. Nobody but the archaic royalty wore things like that anymore.

He's seen him before. It was a while ago, back at the princess's funeral, when he was part of the security detail at the memorial service. That was a day full of sunken eyes. Yes, he's sure of it.

"The Queen's advisor," he says, cutting his mother off mid-sentence. She doesn't ask him about it, just stops moving around the tent. He can feel her staring at him, but he's too busy studying this guy's reaction.

He's still sipping his coffee. It takes a few seconds. About how long it takes to really taste good coffee. He watches it soak in.

Then it hits him. He swallows hard and chokes a little. He looks up at Lionel even as he's hunched over his cup. Before he can even breath regularly, he's already trying to get the words out, it's pounding at his lips.

A few drops of coffee dribble down his chin as he sputters, "_Yes_! T-That's what I was," abandoning his cup on the bedspread and flinging out his hands. He's not beaming at his triumph or gaping at his guilt this time. He's watching Lionel, and those arms are encouraging him, beckoning him to continue.

"I keep trying to remember what it was I was called, it's always on the tip of my tongue, and there it is! I remember now!" And his newfound confidence is enough to make you believe it's true, that he's cured, that it was just some spout of amnesia and he's going to be okay now.

Camilla is gaping in confusion, and Lionel is sitting very still, waiting, watching. And the guy's silly grin begins to fall and eyes cloud over with uncertainty.

"The Queen's _advisor_?" repeats Camilla, because really, that wasn't what she'd expected at all.

The headcase's hopeful grin turns to her now. Lionel isn't sure at first whether he might have imagined it. He watches it hit him. Like good coffee. Again. Exactly the same. He stutters, throwing his arms up. "Yes! That's what I was," he says. "I keep trying to remember what it was I was called, it's always on the tip of my tongue, and there it is! I remember now!"

And the weirdest part is, suddenly his mother looks almost relieved. She crosses the room and takes its outstretched hands, squeezing. Finally, quietly, gently, she says, "You already said that, love."

It's a very weird moment. She's projecting absolute pity and his former elation is now just a phantom grin on his face. And Lionel can see, in the space between the first expression and the second, the ghost of a great man.

The man raises his hand to rub his terribly unkept hair, laughing nervously. "I did? Oh," he says, shrugging. It's a pitifully helpless gesture. One you never see on a great man. For a second Lionel sees himself. Feels himself trapped in his own mind, knows, in that instant, that he would have given up living if only he could remember he was miserable.

And, well, it's kind of funny to think about, and he can't help chuckling. "That's a hefty weight you got on your head," he says, rubbing his chin. Surprisingly, the headcase smiles back at him.

"He's got a good heart, Lionel," his mother says. "He just...slips up sometimes."

The man blinks. "I...glitch."

Both Lionel and his mother turn their attention to him. He glances nervously at them, muttering, "A minor malfunction, mishap, or technical problem, a slip-up..."

"'Glitch'?" repeats Lionel. "As in, a computer glitch?" The man nods.

"Is that a mechanical term?" asks Camilla, confused.

Her son sighs. "I'm not really familiar with the technology, but I hear about it from the alchemists and hokey engineers that skulk around Azkadehlia's castle."

A shadow crosses the man's face. "Azkadehlia." he repeats. Mother and son watch him patiently, as his thoughts become clearer by the minute. "_She_ did this to me," he breathes, touching the rough metal on his skull.

Lionel nods. "Most likely. Probably pissed her off one-too-many times, so she decided to do the closest thing to killing you.

Camilla looks older with each word. She sits down beside the man. The advisor. This man was next to royalty once. An interesting headcase indeed. She almost can't believe it. But still...

She's seen mutilated dead bodies. Men don't live without their heads in one piece. "How..." she begins, voicing the question that burns brightest in her mind. "How can he still be alive?"

"That's the mystery, isn't it?" shrugs Lionel. "Look, way I figure it, that zipper on his head's just a symbol. It marks him, but they don't actually pull his brain out that way." The man is listening, enraptured, but looking sicker and sicker. "It's got something to do with magic. That's the only way he's still alive. He's got, like, a ghost of his mind still in there, doing all the necessary stuff."

He shrugs again, shaking his head, and overall feeling really uncomfortable with the whole concept. Ripping off an arm is one thing, but ripping out brains was something else entirely.

Mother and son sit, quietly pondering life and death and the grey area in-between, all the while being observed by their peculiar guest. Somewhere in the silent stretch that follows, he comes to the full realization that his brain is missing. The revelation causes him to become dreadfully nauseous and he stumbles outside into the twilight.


	3. Alive

Title: Headcase, Chapter 3

Author: digitalruki

Rating: PG

Characters: Glitch, later Glitch/DG

Summary: Somehow, Glitch went from being brainless to being a half-wit. Somehow.

Author's Note & Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. Any feedback on this fic would be most welcome.

-0-

Memories come to him like waves, comfortable and soothing. With each thought he completes he feels he can breath easier, hold his head higher, walker straighter. But, like a wave, they then retreat, and the air around him becomes hot and dry, he feels sick, he can't _think_.

When you're adrift on a current, after a while, you don't feel the waves lift you up and down. Every part of you, even your blood, moves with them, and you don't even notice, because you trust your body.

So in those brief moments of clarity he takes what he can, he kisses Camilla on the cheek, he asks Lionel about what he does as a spy. He tries to remember specific things, like where he was born, what his life used to be like, why he was captured. But for some reason, his past remains in shadow.

He sighs heavily to himself. Again. Camilla throws a wondering look over her shoulder. "It's nothing," he reassures her, and turns his attention to his current task of going through the pile of clothes she's presented him.

"See anything you like, Glitch, dear?" she calls, going back to embroidering something colorful and soft-looking. His knees go all weak and fuzzy when she calls him that. It's not really the most flattering of names, but it just sounds so comforting coming from her. He can't place it, but she reminds him of someone.

He picks through the pile with an uninhibited disdain, which bothers him, because he should be really happy. Sometimes he yearns for things and he can't understand why. He doesn't always make the connection that these are things he could have been fond of in the past. He's doesn't know anything for sure. What he does know is that he can't seem to find anything in this pile appealing. Don't these gypsies have any fine imperial coats? Or regal high-collar shirts? He lifts up a particularly silly-looking striped sweater.

"Well, that's a fine shirt!" says Lionel, bundle of firewood tucked under his arm as he comes through the tent-flap door. Camilla wholeheartedly agrees and they both shove the thing over his shoulders before he can say anything. And, well, it's warm and not full of holes and they're both beaming at him with loving pride, so...

Dry air. Dry throat. A synapse somewhere in a glass jar jolts. He's in a cool, dark place, filled with bubbles, filled with electricity.

Snap out of it. Focus. Camilla. Lionel. Warm, loving smiles. Wait, _why_ are they beaming at him again?

His body tells him to just shut up and smile back and take love where he can get it, so he does. He's learned to trust his body.

-0-

Standing outside the tent that evening, he breathes in the cool eastern wind. The air washes over him like water. Always, it seems, from the east.

Before he fades again, he makes decision. The next time that wave hits him, he's a mile away.

Camilla wanders around the outskirts of the camp the next morning, searching for him, but with no luck. She stops momentarily to rest by a stream, massaging her creased forehead, wondering where he could have gone. Lionel finds her there, and places a hand on her shoulder.

"I picked up his trail on the eastern side of camp," he says. "He's gone."

"I know that," she snaps, brushing off his hand. "He could have stayed for breakfast, at least."

Lionel smirks, snaking his arm around her shoulder. "He won't forget you, Mother. His heart won't let him."

-0-

With each step, it seems, his head becomes clearer. It's remarkable, really. With a bit of focus and a strong resolve, it's really very easy for him to remember where he just was and where he's going. He can even handle doing two things at once, like talking and walking at the same time. It's really quite remarkable. "If only I could show someone," he laments from time to time.

With each mile, he becomes more comfortable. Or, it seems, the world becomes more comfortable with him. His steps, confident and graceful, are accepted by the earth. He doesn't stumble.

At least, not until he comes across Mongo the Amazing and His All-Seeing Lion Man.

Mongo lives out of a caravan, like many carnie travelers, left mostly to themselves since the Tin Men have all but died out. He and his companion, Sin, a bonifide viewer, have fallen on tough times since town carnivals have declined in popularity. They keep mostly to the old forest paths now, hunting and trapping and generally not getting out much.

And pointing guns at anything that comes within ten meters of their camp.

Glitch isn't all that familiar with guns. He's surprised, but not at all alarmed by the hollow steel rod currently pointed at his nose. He is the quintessential figure of calm as he stares down the barrel at its owner, a very hairy man dressed completely in scraggly furs. The man growls. The headcase feels a shiver run down his spine.

"State your name and business, stranger," the man says in a gruff voice.

He blinks. "My name? Well, to be honest, sir, I can't really recall it at the moment. But you can call me Glitch."

The man's brow furrows. He places his thumb on the safety catch. "And your business?"

Something he knows. Giving the man a straight answer fills him with an indescribable pleasure. "I'm traveling to the east."

From the far side of the camp, they hear the sound of shattering glass, and an indignant yelp. A slurred voice bellows, "Sin! Who is it?" The man named Sin sighs, releasing the safety catch and lowering his weapon.

"Where in the east?" he asks in a defeated voice.

Glitch shrugs. "I don't know."

"No?" Sin raises his bushy eyebrows and looks Glitch up and down. Something in the corner of his eye twinkles. "Maybe I can help you there." He slings the gun over his shoulders and turns to walk back toward camp. Glitch follows, fascinated by the shiny firearm currently perched over the man's shoulders.

From behind the caravan stumbles a very slimy-looking man. His hair, wild and greasy, cascades out over his red velvet coat. The coat, tattered at the edges, intertwines around his ring-covered fingers.

He sees Glitch tailing his partner and rushes to greet him.

"Welcome! I'm the Amazing Mongo, maybe you've heard of me!" he exclaims, taking up Glitch's calloused hands in his own. His eyes are inevitably drawn to the bit of silver above his brow, and his mouth cracks a grin, revealing two rows of gleaming yellow teeth. "My, my, aren't you a strange one!" Unbidden, his fingers reach up to touch the clasp, only to be smacked away.

Glitch steps back a little. "Sorry," he says sheepishly. "I seem to not like to be touched."

Mongo laughs. "It's quite alright, sir, quite alright. Say," he says, stepping closer and immediately re-invading Glitch's personal space, "You wouldn't happen to have any platinums on you, would you?"

Glitch shakes his head and steps back a little more. "Sorry," he says nervously, "I seem to not like to be touched."

Sin shoves himself between the two. "Alright, Mongo, leave him be."

Mongo throws up his arms inoffensively. "Okay, beast man, whatever you say."

"Come on," the beast man calls as he stalks off. Glitch follows silently.

He is offered a seat by the fire and a cup of 'grog'. It burns his throat something terrible, and he scrunches his face up in an attempt to squeeze the burn out.

Sin takes a seat beside him, downing his drink in a few swift gulps.

"So," he says, staring into his empty cup. "_Would_ you like to know where you're headed?"

Glitch carefully sets down his near-full mug. "How can you find out?" he asks.

The man, or beast, or whatever he is, taps his temple. "I expect you aren't aware how much memory you still have." He points to the zipper. "There's powerful magic in your head, blocking it."

"A viewer," Glitch says suddenly. "You're a viewer."

Sin nods. "Remember that, do you?"

Glitch gulps. "And you want to--to..." His hand flies to his skull.

Sin reaches forward, and Glitch feels his heart thumping against his throat, fear rising in his chest. He's about the leap backwards, when that solid hand lands firmly on his shoulder, pinning him down. "Relax," the viewer cooes.

White stars fill his vision, he can feel his eyelids flutter for a moment... sparks, bubbles, and he's in the dark room again, floating, cold, numb, faint voices fly through his head, he's flushed down into shadowy memories, incomprehensible and overlapping.

It's suddenly gotten so very _cold, _when Sin's hand releases him, and he's left shuddering and gasping.

Sin waits for him to look up. Glitch can't remember where he is for a moment. He realizes that he actually forgot how terrifying it was at the beginning, those first few days, when he could barely form a thought. And here it is again, that agonizing blankness. He could scream. He's about to, when Sin says something he'll never, ever be able to forget.

"She's alive."

The wind rushes against his cranium, cool, clear thought returning instantly. He coughs. "Who? Who's...alive?" he manages.

Sin stares at him, and they share a moment of mutual confusion. Sin scratches behind his ear in a very animalistic gesture. "Whoever you're headed to, I figure."

Glitch can't stop the growing sensation to grin as the statement sinks in. He doesn't even know who she is, or why he would think she was dead, but he doesn't have to. He's learned to trust his body. And his body is all but somersaulting with glee at the news. _She's alive. Alive._

That night he finds it impossible to close his eyes. He stares into the dancing tree branches that canopy Mongo's campsite, hypnotized by their swaying motions, and he feels he's swaying with them, heart frolicking in the starlight to the most beautiful song he's ever heard, two words echoing themselves over and over again in his ears, _she's alive, she's alive, she's alive_.

He is momentarily pulled out of his mantra by harsh, argumentative voices coming from the fire pit. His ears float back down to earth to listen, and he recognizes the voices as belonging to Mongo and Sin. Intrigued, he listens harder.

"That coat would fetch a fine penny, and you know it." He identifies this whiny, slithery voice as Mongo's. "It's practically vintage!"

"It's a piece of garbage," comes Sin's deep, gruff voice.

"It's royalty," sneers Mongo, "And it's probably stuffed with platinums."

"Alright, partner. What do you propose we do with the royal backside wrapped in it?"

A silent moment, and then two sets of laughter entertwine in a sickly cackle. Glitch is already on his feet when he begins to feel uneasy. He's already running as fast as he can when he figures out he should probably leave.

-0-

Notes: This is the last chapter that I wrote for this story after i started it last year. I kind of just decided to start it up again recently. I'm currently writing a chapter 4 (and maybe 5?), plus a sequel fic that chronicles Glitch meeting DG. I'm not sure what I will post next, but please let me know what you think of this so far. I would like to know if I should carry the story farther or just quit while I'm ahead. Thanks for reading!


	4. Queen, pt 1

Title: Headcase, Chapter 4

Author: digitalruki

Rating: PG

Characters: Glitch

Summary: "It's very nice to meet you, Mister..." The horse, seemingly flustered, doesn't respond. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, " says Glitch, "Is it Mrs.?"

Author's Note & Disclaimer: I don't own Tin Man. Sorry this took so long!! (Even though I have no idea if anyone was waiting for it.) I've been rather under the weather so I just had no energy to write until now. Any feedback on this fic would be most welcome.

-0-

He has been travelling east, following a scent that he can't smell towards something he couldn't recognize if he saw it. The farther he walks the more he wonders what on earth he's doing. The closer he comes, the greater his mind wants to break away. But the body carries onward.

When he steps onto the main street of Brewertown, Glitch wonders if he has reached the end of his journey. The town is set directly in his path, and a strange air surrounds it. He doesn't know exactly how he knows, but he can feel a connection to it, somehow, like he's been here before.

Children scurry home, and the townsfolk watch the strange man wander through the streets from their front windows. The people of Brewertown might have come into contact with headcases in the past, but this man is not like any half-brained fool they've ever met. A headcase, they know, is a ghost of a man, without creativity or free will. But they notice that his manner is varied, as if he keeps changing his mind about how he should walk. A headcase does not have any sense of direction or the passage of time. But they see that when he reaches the center of town, he turns to look behind him, as if to see how far he's come.

One building in particular grabs Glitch's attention. The lights are what he first notices. They are brighter than any other home's, all twinkling under a glowing sign above the front door reading "Poppy's Bar & Inn."

He hears voices and the sounds of metal and glass. In the twilight each window flickers with an inner warmth. His shadow stretches out in front of him, the dark shape melting into the inky recesses of the structure. It seems to be a gathering place of some kind, and so he gathers his thoughts and walks up to it.

Carriages and horses fan out around the perimeter. Some of the animals turn their tired heads towards him as he walks gingerly up the steps. He stops to bow to the closest horse.

"It's very nice to meet you, Mister..." The horse, seemingly flustered, doesn't respond. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry, " says Glitch, "Is it Mrs.?"

"You can chat her up all night, doll," calls a honeyed voice from the direction of the front doors. Glitch turns to see a rosy, robust woman, smudged and sooty apron tied about her waist. "But I can guarantee you won't get anything out of her." She's smiling at him, but her eyes are so scrunched up that she doesn't look real. He finds himself shuffling back down the steps nervously. After all, even if he is a grown man, he's only ever spoken to four people (that he can recall) and he's just remembered that women seem to frighten him.

Having decided that a porch and five stairs is a reasonable distance between him and the lady, he bows again. But he has no idea what he's supposed to say.

In the silence that stretches, he hears the woman's breath catch. He looks up quickly to see what's wrong. He can see her eyes now, dark and round, and a sadness that illustrates how he must appear; a man who's lost his mind.

"Oh," she breathes quietly. Still looking at his forehead. She turns, as if he isn't even there, and walks back inside.

And that image, of a sad face turning away from him, is too familiar, and now he can recall every time someone on the street or passing him on the road has done the same thing. He hadn't even noticed it then, how he was viewed. This is the other half of the curse, he muses. Not only can he not see anything, but no-one can see him. For the first time, he begins to realize how terribly alone he's been.

Seemingly, for much longer than he can remember.

The congregation inside is bustling and lively and not lonely at all, and he wants it so badly, wants that feeling inside of him, that his feet are carrying him through the doors before he can think twice. As the scene hits him, he wonders if it will be anything like the balls he can sometimes see himself whirling through.

But no, this is a party unlike any he's ever, ever seen. For one thing, it looks like he isn't welcome, because as soon as he sets foot by the bar he starts to feel a lot of eyes on him, and when he looks over his shoulder he sees the the men playing cards and the men drinking and the men arguing all look at him. Or, he supposes, at the stigma on his forehead.

A hand on his shoulder, and suddenly most of the eyes shuffle back to their own business. His gaze turns to follow the arm up along a purple sleeve and smudged apron, to the round, dark eyes of the rosy woman from before. She's not looking straight at him still, but directly through him, with a stern disposition, at all men who would like to oppose his being here. He's her guest.

As the noise rises again, she focuses on him, and he tries to smile. Stepping back a little, he bows once more. "Thank you," he says.

"Now listen, honey, if you can understand me," she says sternly, grabbing his cheeks. Yes, this is a bit closer than he's comfortable with. No, he might not remember what she's about to say. But her voice sounds like she's yelling to him from across a roaring river, telling him how to cross. So he tries his best.

The woman declares, "No-one in my bar gets service unless they got a name. I've dealt with your kind before, and I ain't in the mood for mind games." Glitch makes the connection without even having to mull over it, because he already made a note somewhere when he wasn't paying attention to himself that this bar-and-inn belong to someone.

"Poppy," he says. She opens her mouth to reply but stops, having just been addressed. At least, Glitch hopes this is the case, and continues. "Er, I mean, Glitch. Is, um. My name. But I was just guessing at yours. Miss Poppy, I presume? The name on the sign--" he gestures towards the front door, "Outside."

She bites her bottom lip, raising her eyebrows. "The sign?" she finally manages, looking over her shoulder, as if hoping to see an explanation. This motion requires her to remove her hands from his face. Glitch is a little relieved. After all, he doesn't seem to like to touched. Finding no tricks, Poppy turns back to him. "Yes, I'm Poppy." She shakes her head a little, and smiles. "Glitch...was it?"

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss Poppy. But, you see," says Glitch, and he hopes honesty is the best course, "I don't remember what my real name is, on account of, well..." His hand floats above the zipper, and he shrugs. "You wouldn't happen to...recognize me, would you?"

Poppy whirls around behind the bar, grabbing a glass. "Never seen you in these parts. What can I get you?" she asks, shaking the glass. Glitch holds up his hands apologetically, changes his mind and rests them on the bar counter.

"I don't drink, at least I don't know if I do, so I better not," he reasons. She shrugs and pulls a bottle of red liquid out from under the counter. "And I, uh, have no...money."

"Have some cranberry juice, then." She slides the full glass under his nose. It glimmers in the candlelight, so appealingly. "I can see you aren't the richest of fellows. But you sure speak clearer than most of the men here."

As he reaches for the glass, he can feel her watching him carefully. Seeing what he does. He tries to remember if there is anything he's forgetting, comes up blank, and takes a sip.

"Strangest thing I ever saw," Poppy exclaims, slamming the cork back into the juice bottle. "A headcase with a mind of his own."

Swallowing the sweet, tangy liquid, Glitch muses, "I don't believe it would be...accurate to call it my own mind. Or rather, this...conscious state I'm in. That is--"

"Harry! Come see this!" Poppy waves over one of the men playing cards, a fellow as hairy as his namesake. He steps around behind the bar to stand beside Poppy, resting his arm around her shoulders. She turns back to Glitch. "Say your name again, doll."

Unfortunately, he's in mid-gulp, so when he tries to say "Glitch," again, cranberry juice spills all down the front of his shirt. Harry and Polly roar with laughter.

He starts over. "It's Glitch," he says, wiping his mouth. "Not 'honey', or 'doll'," he adds. He's not trying to rude, he's just worried that maybe she's forgotten it already. It wasn't more than a few minutes ago she wasn't acknowledging him at all.

"What's wrong with me, anyway?" he thinks aloud.

Poppy stops laughing. Harry, too. They both look worried. He realizes he's talking to himself again. It's frustrating. Sometimes his brain won't move at all, but sometimes it moves so fast he can barely keep up. What was the question?

"I'm a headcase," he answers himself. He slides his glass over a foot or so, creating a thin pool of moisture on the bar surface. He doodles indescribable shapes in it, and all the while he speaks haltingly. "My brain was removed because, presumably, I did something...wrong. Or I--" he clasps his cranium at this point, "--_knew_ something, and did you know...a person is...clinically dead when brain function ceases?"

Poppy can't seem to find anything to say to that. She looks to Harry, then to her front door. Finally, she just whispers, "Dead?"

Harry smiles, sadness and humor in his voice. "You must have just forgot."

Glitch tries to make out what he's drawn on the counter. "What did I forget?" He mumbles, transfixed. What does that shape look like?

"That you were dead," Harry finishes, laughing. He reaches over the counter to slap his shoulder. Glitch stops the motion by reflex, doesn't even notice, because he's drawn something on the counter.

Fading as the water evaporates, is a pair of eyes, and the letter L. Eyes, eyes...He touches his own eyes. "What did I forget?" he repeats. He looks up at the pair, his hand still gripping Harry's, and Poppy's biting her lip again. Her dress is a light purple.

No. It's lavender. A color he could never forget. These eyes...they're lavender, too.

"Miss Poppy, " he says, releasing Harry's arm. He tries to smile reassuringly. Hopefully he had something along the lines of charm in his former life.

Poppy smiles, nodding. "Yes?"

Oh, good, he got it right. "Have you ever met anyone with lavender eyes?"

Poppy and Harry chuckle. "There's only one person in the O.Z. with eyes that color, darlin."

For some reason, he knows he should know who that person is, but he can't recall. "Who?" he asks,

"Well--" and she leans in close, as if it's a secret, "The Queen."


	5. Queen, pt 2

_Title: Headcase, Chapter 5, "Queen Part 2"  
Author: digitalruki  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Glitch  
Summary: Fate has left a puzzle for Glitch to piece together.  
Author's Note & Disclaimer: Thanks for all the support! I don't own Tin Man. As always, any feedback on this fic would be most welcome._

-0-

Lionel Weaver is staring into the face of a headcase. Not one like Glitch--this one's the real thing. This one doesn't bother meeting Lionel's gaze. It seems to be having trouble sitting up straight. It keeps watching the flickering light above Lionel's head. There's a ghostly smile on its lips, not expressing any emotion, just held there by muscles not being given any clear direction.

He's looking at this thing, sitting across from him in the grey-lit dungeon room in the dregs of Azkedehlia's castle, because he had to know. He had signed up for the prison watch, he had found out where they executed the procedure, he had found the cell of one of the newest cases. He had snuck down here and opened the door and reached out his hand for the man inside to grab on to. He remembers that his original plan was to break the man out. But when he got there he had discovered the man had already left a long time ago.

All that is left is the shell. There are tattoos on its arms and a scar on its face. Was this man a common thief? A murderer? Or was he someone who surely didn't deserve this cruel treatment? Someone like Glitch?

He waits. He watches. Perhaps, if he stays long enough, this man will also start to talk. To look at him. To remember things that have been pulled out of him forcefully--like Glitch.

Or maybe Glitch is different, after all.

-0-

"The Queen," whispers Poppy, as if it's some sort of secret.

Glitch's eyes widen when she answers. A grin breaks out across his face, even though he's still confused. Like someone else has put the smile there.

Like someone put these clues out for him to find. Everywhere he goes he learns something new. Or, rather, something old, since he seems to have already known all this. But when he puts them all together, he's still confused.

"She's...alive," he mutters. "The Queen. She's alive. The Queen...alive?"

Harry leans under the counter and pulls out a brown glass bottle. He considers its contents skeptically. "No one really knows for sure. The last anyone heard of her was almost three annuals ago." Uncorking the bottle, he takes a swig.

Why, wonders Glitch, is it important that he know she's alive? Other than the part where he's pretty sure he and Her Highness used to hang out a lot, so knowing she's okay is surely a relief. He puts his hand over his chest. Yes, his heart is beating fast. His body is excited. Interesting.

But saying it out loud doesn't work. "The Queen...she's alive. That's not right," he mutters, scratching his matted hair. The place in his former brain that seems to be rapidly re-awakening around the fact that 'she's alive' (whoever she is) isn't the same as that of the realization that his Queen's eyes are the color of Poppy's purple dress.

Poppy shakes her head, and grabs Glitch's hand. "No, I believe it, too. The Queen isn't dead. This Azkadehlia...--"

"She did this to me." Glitch points to the zipper. "The Queen...I was her advisor." That sounds more like it. He remembers vaguely that he's had this conversation before. Remembering it and having again seem to make it easier for him to remember what he's saying. Short-term memory converting to long-term memory. Fascinating.

Poppy gasps. She understands. "Azkadehlia wanted your mind." Her hands are warm and soft. Glitch smells flowers. Is it Poppy, or just his memory associating her with something? No, this is too confusing. He has to lay it out linearly.

"Back up," he says, using his free hand to motion 'stop'. Poppy and Harry both take a few steps back, but Glitch immediately waves at them apologetically. "No, I didn't mean..." Stop. Breath. Think. "Let me back up, I mean.

"Not the Queen...but someone else. Someone is alive, and it's important that I...find her." He runs his finger long to rim of his glass. "But I've been searching for so long. I don't even know who she is!"

To his surprise, Poppy and Harry both chuckle. They exchange the queerest of looks. Glitch finds that he takes offense to whatever the looks means, and furrows his brow. "What?" he exclaims indignantly.

Poppy gives him a wink, and heck if that doesn't make him go kind of weak at the knees. "Glitch, honey, if there's one thing I know, it's the human heart." She tilts her head towards Harry, who is still stealing gulps of whatever is in that brown bottle. "And what you got to understand about your heart--" she says, snatching the bottle from under his lips and reaching for Glitch's glass, "--is that it won't find anybody else until you find it." Glitch surrenders the glass, and she shoves it into Harry's empty hand. Glitch touches his chest again. Still beating fast.

He rubs absently at the spot. "My heart isn't what's missing," he reasons.

Poppy leans on the empty counter, smiling. "But you and your heart don't see eye-to eye, right? Because it remembers things you don't."

Glitch is kind of skeptical why she knows that. Then again, she is a woman. They seem to know better than him, on a regular basis.

"Yes," he replies, nodding.

"And in your case, you probably won't ever see eye-to-eye with it."

Glitch bows his head, rubbing harder. "Yes."

Soft hands cup his face once more. "That's okay, doll. All is not lost. You just have to learn to trust your heart."

It's good advice. Glitch nods again, standing up straight. Poppy takes her hands away. He gets the feeling that he'll forget what she said within a few minutes, except for the part where her warm hands cupped his chin, pulling it up from despair. It's interesting how he remembers words better when he remembers how he had felt when they were said. Trust his heart, she said.

He wonders if he can.

"Stay with us," Poppy exclaims, slamming her hands onto the counter. Glitch, whose hands were resting there, jumps back. Harry's already showing enthusiasm.

"What a wonderful idea, darlin," he says, putting his arm back around her shoulder. She beams at him. Glitch looks from one kind person to the other, and back, and his smile floats to the surface, too.

"That's...you're really too kind," he says. "I really shouldn't intrude, though..."

"Nonsense, a good night's rest will set you right. Now, follow me upstairs." She twirls around the bar counter, grabbing his arm and practically dancing him up the stairs. His heart twirls with her. The smell of flowers, again. There must have been flowers everywhere when he first learned to dance.

Trust is not a concept he's familiar with. He's pretty sure he wasn't even that familiar with it before the whole...incident. But lately he's been coming into contact with it more and more. Like here, these kind people who trust so easily. And how his body moves without him telling it to...He's gotten used to the strange sensation. Blood pumps through his body, and he's come to understand that even if he lays down and closes his eyes, it will keep pumping, and he'll keep breathing, even if he doesn't see any reason to.

Because his heart's reason is her. And someday he'll find her. It doesn't have to be today or tomorrow or anytime soon, but just having faith that she's out there fills him with a new kind of happiness.

The following morning, he is dragged out of bed by Poppy. Downstairs he finds before him a modest breakfast. He eats, and it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.

Bowing, he says, "Thank you," to Poppy, and Harry. They insist he stay, but he knows he has to go. His journey isn't over. There's still too much east out there for him to follow.

And he'll walk that path as long as it takes, even if tomorrow he doesn't remember why. Because even if his mind won't remember, his heart is set. He'll let it guide him anywhere.

-0-

_A/N: Please read "Bright As A Beacon", the sequel to "Headcase". Thanks for reading!_


End file.
